Desmond eyed his texts briefly, thumb scrolling through and hitting the touchscreen. Nothing interesting... mostly a few messages from his friends bothering him about a new movie. One or two that knew about his situation with Dudley were asking if he’d actually ‘made a damn move’. Desmond snorted and closed out the texts. They’d find out eventually, he was sure. But not tonight. So he left the them unanswered and put a note up on his social media about being MIA for the night—possibly tomorrow. Which.... could come back to bite him in the ass if any of his friends decided to hoof it over to his place in the next day and a half. He really should have asked if Dudley worked tomorrow...
He looked at the time before tucking his phone away. They hadn’t discussed whether he’d wait for him outside or... go in. Desmond had a mind to play things safe; discretion was the better part of valor, after all. But when he looked out the front window and didn’t see anyone even wandering out back he frowned. He’d purposely not parked where he had earlier, not wanting to take up space for other delivery vehicles—possibly. And... he had arrived a little early. So... to wait or not to wait?
With a shrug, because he wasn’t in the mood for patience, he decided to at least step outside. He popped the side door and hopped off onto the metal deck outside the coffee shop. Then he shut the door and hit a button or two on a pad before turning towards the back entrance, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Wind briefly tousled his hair, making him push it out of his eyes with a huff before he got close to the back door. The open back door. It was usually opened, he guessed. Not his style, but it was a coffee shop with semiregular deliveries and—.
"You'll finish it. Every box, Mister Sinclair. And no, I'm not paying you overtime, but you at least won't be fired for leaving the premises on the job."
Desmond stilled, eyes narrowing as he stopped before stepping into the doorway. He knew that voice, vaguely. Had met the proprietor once or twice when he’d needed to sign paperwork—six month contracts—for the deliveries. He’d never totally pegged him for a top notch asshole, but he’d also never really liked the look of the guy either. Reminded him too much of a slimy and way too intelligent lab assistant from a horror flick.
He waited until he heard footsteps carry the other man away; they were too heavy to be Dudley’s. And.... there was also the cursing. Dudley cursing. And the rapid sound of boxes being sliced open. It would have made Desmond smile, but he was too busy frowning. He didn’t like the idea of Dudley being bullied by a jackass boss who didn’t think someone who acted and looked like Dudley didn’t know the law. Or maybe he did and just assumed there was nothing Dudley could have done about it. Desmond felt a prickle along the back of his neck—Silver Spoon Syndrome, as he liked to call it—and shook his head. It was easy to get upset when you had a safety net, when you didn't really have to worry about not having money if you needed it--truly needed it. It'd be nice, Desmond thought, to not have to worry about needing that net one day. To not have it; to not be too afraid to go without it.
He might not like what had been said, but it wasn't really his place to attempt playing white knight either. He didn't really know if Dudley would like that. And Desmond really didn't know how long he'd keep his job after that either. He was totally not going to be responsible for getting his date fired, evil boss or not.
So, Desmond put on his best smile, washed away the frown as best he could, and stepped into the doorway to lean into the frame. His hands were still stuffed in his coat pockets as he gaze landed on Dudley. “...Need help?” Because it seemed like the most obvious question to ask, and, the easiest to way to—maybe—make Dudley’s night marginally easier.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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